


Love Poems

by Ghuleh_heart



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Romance, Love Confessions, M/M, but better at them than he thinks, crowley is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 17:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19431175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghuleh_heart/pseuds/Ghuleh_heart
Summary: Something had felt different. Crowley wasn’t sure what, but he knew that whatever it was, was six thousand years in the making, something boiling under the surface, threatening to devastate the tectonic relationship he shared with Aziraphale if he thought too long about it. He was sure that it would spill out of his eyes and mouth and nose if he tried to subdue his feelings any longer, but well, Crowley wasn’t very good at doing what was best for himself.This, though. This he was determined to do right, or at least try to. Aziraphale deserved that much.





	Love Poems

**Author's Note:**

> Whats UP, this is the first fic i've written in uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh lets not. think about that, lmao (like 4 years tbh)
> 
> and naturally its written while listening to Like Heaven by Zolita, which i recommend listening to, cause its a major ineffable husbands song.
> 
> no beta, we typo like men

By and large, there were no murmurs or looks sent towards Crowley and Aziraphale when they walked hand in hand or arm in arm (there were a few periods in the past where physical intimacy between two masculine folks were not as scandalous. An unexpected downside in the modern world, Aziraphale would muse every so often). Those who frequent haunts that the angel and demon preferred had grown used to the strange uncomfortable affection between them, learning quickly to not say anything by way of murderous glares by the latter that sent shivers of cold fear down their spine. Aziraphale always gave a sheepish smile at those moments.

“It’s no issue, Crowley.” He would tell the other, gentle hand on his elbow to guide him away. Humans could be rude, loud, ignorant, but that, Aziraphale would say, was why they were human. Crowley would begrudgingly agree, loath to walk away from whoever had the absolute gall to be rude to himself or the angel.

His angel, he would think, the words still getting just barely caught in his throat when they tried to bubble up. That sort of affection was still a bit, well, uncomfortable for him. An arm around his shoulder or waist should be nothing, he reasoned, but everywhere Aziraphale touched felt like fire. In a good way, for sure, but the sensation was still so new, even though the angel was always rather fond of these small touches. Six thousand years should have desensitized him.

Then again, he thought, watching Aziraphale savor some dish or another that he had brought to Crowley's place (Crowley insisted he come over for dinner, said they should talk), everything about him felt new. It was always a new experience with him, everything feeling like the first time, like…

Like seeing the sun for the first time, he thought, then wrinkled his nose in disgust. Ugh, had he really just thought that.

“What is it?” Aziraphale swallowed his bite, patting the crumbs from his face with a handkerchief and giving Crowley a curious look. 

“Nothing, angel,” he supplied dismissively, standing to (pace) stretch his legs. He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t.

(He was).

-

Something had felt different. Crowley wasn’t sure what, but he knew that whatever it was, was six thousand years in the making, something boiling under the surface, threatening to devastate the tectonic relationship he shared with Aziraphale if he thought too long about it. He was sure that it would spill out of his eyes and mouth and nose if he tried to subdue his feelings any longer, but well, Crowley wasn’t very good at doing what was best for himself.

This, though. This he was determined to do right, or at least try to. Aziraphale deserved that much.

-

It was a small room adjacent to the verdant indoor garden he kept that Crowley entered, a narrow bookcase, largely occupied by object that weren’t books, stood in the corner. One book in particular he picked up, antique leather cover and aged pages reminding him of the smell of Aziraphale’s little shop. He cradled it carefully, although it wasn’t particularly fragile. Or, for that matter, old.

This book, in fact, hadn’t existed at all until about a week ago.

Crowley had done months of research, remembering and finding new poetry to fill the pages with, hand inked and bound to create a new collection. One that will never be printed like this again.

There were a few classics that he knew Aziraphale liked, some that were quite old, some in dead languages, and a few that would put a good shade of pink on the angels cheek.

He passed it between his hands a few times, letting himself feel nervous for just a moment, before adopting his confident strut back to the dining room. Crowley placed the book on the table, not near enough for it to be a gesture of giving and Aziraphale didn’t comment, even if he gave it a curious look.

There was a long stretch of silence, much more uncomfortable than the silences between them usually were. Aziraphale curbed his expectant glances, knowing that trying to push Crowley into doing whatever he was going to do would just annoy them both.

“So,” The demon broke the silence first, nudging the book a bit closer to Aziraphale. “I’ve got something for you.” The angel gave him a pleasant smile.

“Oh, there’s no need-” 

“Ah, shut up and take it.”

Aziraphale laughed and picked up the book. Looking it over, his eyebrows began to furrow.

“I don’t recognize it.”

“It’s…” Crowley shifted, just the barest hint of nervousness showing. “It’s one of a kind.”

Just inside the cover, Aziraphale recognized Crowley’s handwriting. Neat and sharp, small script in a long stanza. He flipped carefully through the pages, watching each poem pass in the same careful style. A smile grew on his face as he flipped back to the cover page.

“These are all-”

“Yeah, I know.”

Aziraphale gently stroked the poem, and Crowley swore he was emitting golden light. Just like an angel, he thought, nearly bitter but with no bite behind it. He looked away before he started to stare.

Aziraphale read quietly for a few moments, before gently closing the book.

“You know,” He began, taking a few steps towards Crowley. “No one has ever written a book for me before.” Crowley scoffed.

“That’s a lie! I’ve seen your collection.”

“Not a book like this,” He said softly, laying a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Not by hand.” He smiled, looking him in the eye from behind the dark glasses. “Not with love.”

Crowley’s face immediately turned beet red, his long limbs flailing awkwardly.

“Wh- I d- How-” he fumbled for words while the angel laughed.

“My dear, you are good at many things. Subtlety is not one of them.”

He pushed Crowley’s glasses up over his forehead, leaning in to bump his nose softly with his own before giving him a short, gentle kiss.

“And, for what it’s worth, I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Write a story that makes any linear sense? Ha, no.
> 
> this is the poem that inspired most of this and the poem on the inside cover of the book crowley gave aziraphale.
> 
> When I Too Long Have Looked Upon Your Face
> 
> When I too long have looked upon your face,  
> Wherein for me a brightness unobscured  
> Save by the mists of brightness has its place,  
> And terrible beauty not to be endured,  
> I turn away reluctant from your light,  
> And stand irresolute, a mind undone,  
> A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight  
> From having looked too long upon the sun.  
> Then is my daily life a narrow room  
> In which a little while, uncertainly,  
> Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,  
> Among familiar things grown strange to me  
> Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,  
> Till I become accustomed to the dark. 
> 
> Edna St. Vincent Millay


End file.
